‘I think so. Subconsciously.’ She stared at him, poised on this moment of revelation like a diver about to plunge into the water, and she dived in fearlessly. ‘But you’ll never be happy until you work out what it is you’re running from.’ She stared at him, waiting breathlessly for his response, like a condemned woman praying for leniency from the judge. But he simply gave a bitter and sarcastic laugh as he reached for his shirt.
‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said, barely flicking her a glance.
In a way it was the worst possible reaction. At least when he had been furious she had felt they were still connected in some way—as if a row was validation that there had been more be
tween them than simply sex. But this new, barely feigned boredom was humiliating. As if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her.
Had her words wounded him? She had spoken in anger, yes—but she had felt justified in doing so. Her intention had been to enlighten and help him, not to hurt him.
Tentatively she reached towards the ruffled dark hair, but he moved away and slid his legs over the bed. He pulled on his jeans with a dismissive gesture that broke her heart into tiny pieces and she realised she had blown it for ever—detonated it with her harsh words.
No. He had blown it, too—by enforcing rigid rules that put paid to any growing closeness between them.
She reached for her crumpled camiknickers and shook them, seeing him watching her, the way the movement made her unfettered breasts swing freely. She saw his mouth tighten.
‘Hurry up,’ he snapped, and walked out and left her, his face an icy mask of haughty froideur.
With trembling hands she dressed in that moonlit room, her skin still flushed and rosy with the aftermath of their incredible lovemaking. And as she straightened up from fastening her sandals she caught a glimpse of herself in the Venetian mirror that hung over the ornate fireplace.
There she was, in her chainstore dress, her hair all mussed. The strange half-light cast by the moon only added to the surreal image in the mirror. She had no place here, nor ever would.
Slowly she began to descend the wide, curving staircase. Nico waited at the bottom, his dark, glittering eyes watching her as if she was some new species he had encountered and he was unsure of just what she was going to do next.
And she watched him, with eyes that were equally uncertain.
Wasn’t there a part of her that regretted her words? A part of her that would now be responsive to having her mind changed? If Nico took her into his arms and kissed her and tried to cajole her into staying, would she honestly be able to resist him?
With an effort he tore his eyes away from the silken thrust of her thighs as she came down the stairs towards him.
‘Let’s go,’ he said shortly, and gave an insulting glance at his watch. ‘You might not be hungry, cara, but I am. I’ll drop you off at the hotel and then I’m going out to dinner.’
Who with? she wondered. But the painful lurch of her heart was caused not by vague imagined jealousies, but by the realisation that already she was swiftly moving into Nico’s past.
Soon she would be little more than a hazy memory.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE trouble was that there was no one Ella could tell—not really—because even to herself it sounded completely unbelievable. What would her parents say—or Rachel, or her best friend Celia—if she suddenly blurted out the reason for her sudden mood swings and the tears in her eyes that swam up without warning?
Well, it’s like this. I’ve fallen in love with a prince, but he doesn’t love me. We’ve had an affair and now it’s over, and I have to move on and get on with my normal life.
In the end she had to come up with some explanation, so she came up with one that said it all.
It’s a man.
Then they all understood, and there was no need for any more explanation at all. No one particularly cared where he was or who he was—although Celia had a pretty good try—because the bottom line was that he was out of the picture and Ella was left nursing a broken heart.
And when she stopped to think about it that really was the fundamental issue. It didn’t matter that Nico was a prince. If he had been a banker or a restaurant owner or a truck driver would her pain have been any less?
Of course not. Love hurt. It sliced through your heart with its particular and specific pain and you just had to wait for time to heal it. That boring prediction that everyone made. Time heals. On an intellectual level you knew it was true, but on an emotional one—well, you just couldn’t imagine not living in this state of misery for the rest of your life.
Her departure from Mardivino had been hurried and inglorious. Oh, an elegant car had arrived to take her to the airport, but it had been driven by a chauffeur, not by Nico.
Her only contact with him after that night, when he had driven her home in a simmering silence, had been a terse and factual telephone call when he had informed her of flight times.
The only unexpected touch had come at the end of the conversation, when Nico had added, or perhaps growled might be a more accurate description of his tone, ‘Gianferro thinks that your idea is an inspired one.’
And because she had been hanging onto her composure only by a thread, her response had come out as cool and sardonic. ‘Please tell him that I am delighted to have been of service.’