So there you had it, thought Ella as she stared out of the window into her garden. Even the weather was reflecting her mood. It was one of those grey, depressing days when the clouds seemed so low they could touch your head, spilling out relentless sheets of rain.
It had been raining ever since she’d arrived home, and now the lawn was like a quagmire, with great boggy puddles splashed by the falling stair-rods.
Even by mid-morning the day did not seem to have lifted at all, and Ella had to light a lamp. She switched the radio on to find that a faded television personality was enjoying a renewed lease of fame by trekking to remote places all over the globe.
Maybe I should do something like that? Ella thought. Change of scenery.
She found that she missed Mardivino—but who wouldn’t? She couldn’t think of a single person who would not have ached for those clear blue skies and sapphire waters, and the green-clothed mountains and white-capped houses of the capital.
She fiddled with the radio, swapping the explorer for the more soothing sounds of classical music, and had just made herself a large pot of coffee when there was a ring at the doorbell. She sighed.
Please don’t be Rachel, she thought. Or Celia. Or any other well-meaning friend who had decided that she needed ‘taking out of herself’. For a second she thought about not answering it, but only for a second.
No.
The world wasn’t going to go away, and nor should it.
When she pulled the door open, it was with a smile. Funny, that. Inside, your heart could be breaking into a thousand little pieces, but somehow you managed to disguise it with a bright smile.
But the smile froze into a burning slash on her lips, for it was not Rachel, or Celia, but Nico who stood there, with raindrops sparkling on his black hair, his face shadowed and his big, strong body so alive and virile.
He looked…
Ella swallowed.
He looked both man and prince. Despite the soaking flying jacket and the faded jeans, there was something indefinably regal about his proud and autocratic bearing.
Never had he looked more desirable, nor quite so unobtainable.
He stared down at her upturned face, pale and heart-shaped, with eyes like two enormous emeralds, and saw there the swift look of pain and regret. For a moment he almost turned away. Perhaps the feelings they aroused in each other were too intense—too incompatible with life itself—especially his life. Perhaps she had come to that conclusion herself. But he knew that he had to find out.
‘Ciao, bella,’ he said softly, and then, even more softly, ‘Gabriella.’
He was the only person who had ever called her that. As if by using her true name he had awoken the true woman who had always lain beneath the surface. A woman who could love and live and feel and hurt—a woman with the same passions as him, only he sublimated those passions using damned machines!
Ella stared at him, wanting to pinch herself, trying to get used to the fact that he was not a figment of her imagination but standing here, on her doorstep.
She thought that he looked different. Harder, and leaner. Edgy. His jaw was dark-shadowed—taunting her with its potent symbol of virility. Seeing him again made the grey day suddenly seem bright, and Ella felt her heart melt. Oh, God—would she ever be able to look at him without curling up inside for love of him?
‘Nico!’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Getting wet,’ he said wryly.
‘Oh, God—you’d better come in!’
His lips were curved in a rueful smile. When in his life had he ever been left standing in the pouring rain on someone’s doorstep?
‘Give me your jacket,’ she said hurriedly, because it was easier to compose herself when she was doing something, and he was very wet. But her hands were shaking as she hung the dripping jacket up. Compose herself? Who did she think she was kidding?
She ran her eyes over his face, not daring to nurture the tiny flicker of hope she felt. Just because he was here, it didn’t mean anything. ‘Why are you here?’ she whispered.
His very presence here was a statement that normally would have been enough. But it was not enough. She had accused him of many things, but the one that had struck home had been running away. And using circumstances and privilege and things—yes, things—as a substitute for reality. Stark reality. Which was sometimes painful but which you could not hide from for ever if you wanted to live in any degree of peace.
But Nico was a man who had never explained his feelings before—never had to—and, as with learning all new skills, he found himself in the long-forgotten position of being a novice.
‘I’ve got rid of my bike,’ he said.
Ella blinked as her foolish little fantasies crumbled into dust. Whatever she might have been secretly hoping for, it had not been to talk about his damned motorbike! Her face was expressionless. ‘Have you?’ she questioned woodenly.