Undone By Her Ultra-Rich Boss

CHAPTER TEN

THREEDAYSLATER, after weeks of azure skies and glorious sunshine, the weather changed. As a result of a front moving in from the west, the pressure plummeted and a thick layer of cloud lay heavily over the estate.

All morning, Orla had felt on edge, her stomach with a strange sense of foreboding that had nothing to do with anything on the professional front.

Everything for the conference, which was now in four days’ time, was either ready or about to be. Guests had been assigned rooms and arrival details had been finalised. The wine had been retrieved from the cellars and food and staff were arriving, including Mariana Valdez, who thankfully defied the stereotype of the illustrious yet temperamental uber-chef by being utterly charming.

On a personal level, however, it was an entirely different matter. Ever since they’d arrived back from Porto, Duarte had been distant and brooding and worryingly monosyllabic. Citing work, he’d been around less during the day and she found that, as in Porto, she missed him. He’d continued to rock her world at night, more so than before, in fact, which was definitely not a cause for complaint, but, while he was at least physically present then, emotionally, she sensed, he was always miles away.

But at least the reason for that wasn’t hard to figure out. Today was the anniversary of his wife’s death, and if the weight of that knowledge sat like a lump of lead on her chest she couldn’t imagine what he must be going through.

She’d woken early this morning, the date flashing in her head like a beacon, and lain there next to him, listening to the gentle rumble of his breathing, her mind racing and her heart aching. How was he going to handle it? Would he want to be on his own? Would he accept her support? Should she brace herself for rejection? Silence? Should she even mention anything?

They weren’t exactly friends, and she supposed a brief affair—however intense—wasn’t designed to encourage that kind of intimacy. But at the same time, he’d be hurting. How could he not? He might look like a god but at the end of the day he was only human. The whirlwind fairy-tale romance had ended in tragedy. The love of his life was gone for ever. It had to be agony, and if it was solely up to her she’d be there for him. But what would he want?

In the end she’d decided to play it by ear. Whatever Duarte wanted, whatever he needed to get through the day, whether it be space, silence or sex, she’d provide it. She’d be sympathetic and supportive. She could do that, despite her ex once having told her otherwise as their engagement limped to an end. This wasn’t someone who’d lost his job due to a corporate restructure and then endlessly moaned about not being able to find a new one without actually putting in all that much effort to facilitate that. This was a man who’d lost his son and beloved wife within six weeks of each other. While it was possible that perhaps she’d been a little harsh on Matt, Duarte’s situation could not be more different.

Yet now, tonight, with the rain hammering down outside and the window of opportunity rapidly closing, Orla couldn’t stand it any longer. Of all the scenarios that had played out in her head, the status quo had not been one of them. However, all day Duarte had acted as if nothing was different. He’d woken up and she’d braced herself for whatever might be coming her way, but he’d merely reached for her and rolled her beneath him. Then, after grabbing a coffee and a croissant, he’d opened up his laptop and got to work, just as he had yesterday, the day before and the day before that.

Perhaps denial was his coping mechanism. Perhaps he didn’t need comforting or to talk about it. The trouble was, because she was aching for him, she wanted to talk about it. She longed to comfort him. The urge to bring it up had been clamouring inside her all day, swelling and intensifying to an unbearable degree, and if she didn’t ask him about it now, when they were at her hotel and privacy was plentiful, then when?

‘So how are you feeling?’ she said, pulling the sheet over her naked, still languid body, shifting onto her side and propping herself up on her elbow as Duarte emerged from the shower room in a white towel wrapped round his hips and a cloud of steam.

He headed for the window and closed the shutters, treating her to a lovely view of his bare back in the meantime.

‘That’s the fifth time you’ve asked me that this evening,’ he said tersely. ‘And I’m still fine.’

But was he? Really? How could he be?

‘You haven’t been fine since we got back from Porto,’ she said, forcing herself to focus on the mystery of his attitude lately and not his near nakedness. ‘You’ve been distracted and distant.’

‘I’ve been right here.’

‘I mean emotionally.’

‘What do emotions have to do with anything?’

Right. Well, for him, nothing, obviously. Unfortunately, she was riddled with the things, and they were demanding attention with increasing insistence, which meant that she couldn’t let this go.

‘You know, if you wanted to talk to me about anything, anything at all, I’d listen,’ she said. ‘Like you listened to me when I was going on about plants.’

He turned, his expression puzzled. ‘What on Earth would I want to talk to you about?’

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs had frozen and her throat had closed up. OK, so that hurt, she thought, forcing out a breath. That stabbed at her heart and then sliced right through the rest of her. But she had to persevere because he was clearly in denial and that couldn’t be healthy. ‘I understand it might be difficult.’

‘What might be?’

‘Well, today.’

‘Why? What’s so special about today?’

Surely it didn’t need to be said. Surely he didn’t need to be reminded. ‘It’s the anniversary of your wife’s death.’

Duarte went very still. His brows snapped together in the deepest frown she’d ever seen on him and he seemed to pale beneath his tan. Shock jolted through her and her eyes widened. The air thickened, the only sound in the room the sound of rain hitting the window like gunshot.

Hadhe forgotten? No. Impossible. It had only been three years. He wasn’t the sort of man to let the anniversary of the death of a much-loved wife slip by unnoticed. He couldn’t be. She had to be mistaken. It had to be denial, after all.

But the tiny seed of doubt that had taken root in her head was growing a foot a second, and before she could stop herself she said, ‘Did you forget?’

‘Apparently I did,’ he muttered, his jaw so tight it looked as though it was about to shatter.

She gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Why? How?’

‘What business is it of yours?’

His tone was flat, brutal, and hit her like a blow to the gut, even though she knew that the answer to his question was none, no matter how much she might wish otherwise. They weren’t in a relationship. They were just having an affair, and one that would soon be over. She had no right to pry. No right to feel eviscerated by the fact that he didn’t want to share anything of meaning with her when she’d shared so much. She had no right to anything, but he was toppling off the pedestal she’d had him on, and suddenly that mattered. She wanted to know why. ‘How could you?’

‘We can’t all be perfect.’

‘But she was your soulmate,’ she said, too agitated and distressed by the notion that he might not be the man she’d thought he was to heed the warning note in his voice. ‘The love of your life. I don’t understand.’

‘Leave it, Orla.’

‘But—’

‘I said, leave it.’

***