The Italians: Cristiano, Vittorio and Dario. Jane Porter

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      It was the closest he’d ever come to an apology but it made no difference to the raw pain inside her. Swept along in an avalanche of emotions, she forgot her promise to herself not to revisit the past. ‘It shouldn’t require hindsight for you to know you messed up badly. You knew how much it took for me to call you and ask you to come that day. When had I ever asked for your help or support before? Never. Just that one time when I was alone and terrified. All you needed was just a gram of sensitivity but no, you were too busy playing the big tycoon. And do you know the worst thing?’ Her voice shook. ‘Until I met you I had never needed anyone. I was strong. I relied only on myself. I sorted my own life out. But you prised me open like a shell on a beach, removing all my protection. You demanded that I open up. You made me need you and stupidly I gave you that power. And then you let me down.’

      Cristiano yanked at his bow tie and dragged open his top button as if it was strangling him. ‘I am running a global corporation. I am a man with enormous responsibilities and on this occasion—’

      ‘What you are, Cristiano, is a man who puts his wife second to his business interests. Do you know what really depresses me? The fact that even now you’re not willing to admit you made a lousy decision. The words “I may have made the wrong decision” have to be virtually dragged from you because you don’t believe yourself capable of getting anything wrong. Well, I’ve got news for you—you definitely made the wrong decision.’ She flung back her head and her hair slid loose over her shoulders. Like a samurai falling on his sword, she uttered the words that she knew would kill their relationship for ever. ‘And I hate you for that almost as much as I hate you for making me need you. You’re an insensitive, arrogant bully and I don’t want you in my life.’

      ‘A bully?’ Those powerful shoulders were rigid. ‘So now I’m a bully?’

      She noticed that he didn’t challenge her on the charge of being insensitive and arrogant. ‘You push and push until things go the way you want them to go. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing, you always have to win. When there’s something you want, you develop tunnel vision. You wanted that Caribbean deal so badly you told yourself I’d be fine. You justified your behaviour by reminding yourself how many people were depending on you, that it was your responsibility to stay and finish the meeting, but the truth is that you stayed because you never think anyone can do the job as well as you and also because you love the buzz of winning. I’d have more respect for you if you were just honest enough to admit it. But you have to tell yourself it’s my fault because the alternative is recognising your own error and you don’t make errors, do you?’ It was possibly the longest, most revealing speech she’d ever made to him and she saw the shock in his eyes as he registered the change in her.

      In the shaft of moonlight two livid lines of colour streaked along his enviable cheekbones. ‘I have already admitted I made the wrong decision. But once again you’ve managed to divert the conversation from the baby you lost.’

      We lost, she thought numbly. We lost it. And as usual his answer to her suggestion of any failing on his part was to brush over it as virtually inconsequential.

      ‘You’re so proud of the fact that you talk about your feelings so easily, but they’re your feelings, Cristiano. You have no interest in anyone else’s unless they match your own. The reason you want to know my feelings is so that you can tell me I’m wrong. So that you can change my mind and tell me what I should be thinking. You have the sensitivity of a tank and I hate your macho, caveman approach to everything.’

      The atmosphere snapped taut and his eyes glittered lethal black in the dim light. ‘I can remember a time when you liked my macho, caveman approach.’

      The sudden punch of sensual heat horrified her. ‘That was a long time ago.’

      ‘Really?’ She was hauled to her feet before she could do more than gasp his name.

      Unprepared and off balance, she tipped against him and was forced to plant her hand against his chest for support. Through the fine silk of his shirt she felt hard male muscle and could feel him literally vibrating with anger. His dark features loomed over her and she swayed towards him like someone in a trance. The heat was suffocating but she had no idea whether it was the sultry Sicilian air or their scorching passion that seared her skin.

      Safe in another country, it had been easy to rationalise the chemistry, but the reality was raw and frightening.

      Two years of self-denial weakened her still further and, instead of pushing him away, her fingers fisted in his shirt. Helpless, hopeless, she watched as his head lowered towards hers, the sheer inevitability of it melting her resistance.

      She was so ready for his kiss, so desperate, that it was a brutal shock when he released her suddenly.

      In a smooth movement he uncurled her fingers from his shirt as if she were an insect he didn’t want touching his flesh. ‘You’re right—’ he spoke in a tone thickened with contempt and disdain as he thrust her away from him ‘—there is no point in conversation. Nothing, nothing, justifies you walking away from our marriage. You think you’re so tough and independent but you’re a coward who would rather run than stay and fight.’

      And run she did. Right then, with her feet bare and her heart exposed. She sprinted along the sand, her hair flying in her face as she ran towards the safety of the villa.

       Coward, coward, coward—

      Each time her feet hit the sand she heard the word in her head and she increased the pace, trying to outrun the noise.

      The tightness in her chest was back but she ran without pausing, without looking back. She ran until her lungs burned and by the time she reached the villa, she could hardly breathe.

      Doubled over, she paused by the door. And knew instantly that she was in trouble.

      She needed the inhaler now. Right now, if she were to avoid the attack that threatened.

      A few minutes before, her biggest fear had been the way she felt about him, but suddenly that fear had been surpassed by something even more dangerous. The need for air.

      Her lungs burned and breathing was becoming harder and harder. With hands that shook she automatically reached for her bag, only to discover she was no longer carrying it. She’d put it down on the sand next to her and she’d forgotten to pick it up when she’d been trying to escape from Cristiano.

      Laurel knew a moment of real terror and she mentally cursed herself for being so stupid. She should have used her inhaler earlier instead of arguing with him.

      Her chest was growing worse by the minute. Her breathing tighter and more laboured. Knowing that she didn’t have her inhaler made the stress worse.

      Being on her own with an attack was something she dreaded more than anything.

      Knowing that she was in serious trouble, Laurel let herself into the villa and sank down onto the floor with her back to the wall. Breathe. Breathe. Slowly. Relax. She needed to go back and find her inhaler but at the moment she wasn’t capable of walking that far.

      Telling herself that she’d be fine if she could just calm down, she forced herself to focus on the lamp glowing in the corner of the room and forget her encounter with Cristiano, but it was hard to be calm when every breath was an effort.

      Her СКАЧАТЬ