Her Wedding Night Surrender

Col’s cough was a loud crackle. ‘I’m fine. The goddamned nurse is here, taking my temperature.’

‘Rectally?’ Pietro’s response was filled with impatience. He softened it with a small laugh. ‘Because you sound cranky as all hell.’

‘I am. I’m a damned prisoner in this room.’ Another cough. ‘How’s my girl, Pietro? Are you looking after her?’

Again, a surge of annoyance raged through Pietro’s chest. ‘She doesn’t appear to need much looking after. Emmeline is stronger than I’d appreciated.’

Col’s laugh was broken by a wheeze. ‘Ah. I see you’ve come up against her stubborn side. Try not to judge her too harshly for it. She inherited that from me.’

‘Mmm...’ Pietro nodded, rubbing his palm over his stubble. He should have shaved. The pink marks of his possession had become regular fixtures on Emmeline’s skin.

‘Is there a problem?’ Col’s question was imbued with the strength that was part and parcel of the man.

‘Si.’

‘What is it? She’s happy, isn’t she? You told me you’d look after her...’

‘She’s happy,’ Pietro agreed, thinking of her flushed face lying beneath him, her eyes fevered, her brow covered in perspiration. Then he thought of her uncertainty as they’d driven back to Rome the day before. The way she’d seemed pursued by ghosts unseen.

‘So? What is it?’

‘She deserves to know the truth about your health,’ Pietro said heavily. ‘She isn’t going to understand why you haven’t told her. You must give her a chance to see you. To say goodbye.’

A wheeze. Then another. Pietro waited, but his loyalty was shifting from the dying man to his daughter—the woman who loved her father and had no idea his life was ending.

‘You can’t tell her.’

It wasn’t the response Pietro had expected. He shifted his weight to the other foot and braced an arm against the glass window that overlooked the city. In the distance he could make out the hill that screened his villa from sight. Was she there, looking out on the same blanket of stars he was? Was she staring up at the sky, wondering about him, missing him, wanting him?

His body throbbed with a need he fully intended to indulge. Soon.

‘Someone has to,’ he said, with a soft insistence that was no less firm for being quietly spoken. ‘She deserves to know.’

‘You aren’t to say anything.’

Col’s voice was raised, and in the background Pietro heard someone—a woman—telling him to calm down.

But Col was working himself up, his tone harsh. ‘If I’d wanted her to know I’d have damned well told her. She’s my daughter, Pietro. You’ve known her for a month—I’ve known her all her life. I know what she needs, damn it. You can’t ruin this.’

‘She deserves a chance to say goodbye.’

‘No.’ It was emphatic. ‘I’m already gone. The man she thought I was...the man I used to be...that’s not me now.’

There was a thick, throaty cough, then the scuffling sound of the phone dropping to the floor.

Pietro spoke quickly. ‘Col? Col?’

A woman’s voice came more clearly into the earpiece as the phone was lifted. ‘Hello?’

Pietro expelled an angry breath. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m sorry, Senator Bovington needs to rest now. This conversation will have to wait.’ The nurse lowered her voice. ‘And next time please take more care not to upset the Senator.’

The call was disconnected before Pietro could ask to speak to Col for a moment longer. He shoved his cell phone back into his pocket and paced to the other side of his room.

And he swore, loudly, into the empty office, his temper ignited more than ever before.

The confidence he’d worn into the office earlier was morphing into doubt. Emmeline deserved to know the truth, but it wasn’t Pietro’s confidence to break. Perhaps with anyone else, he would, but Col was like a second father to him. He wouldn’t share this secret until he had Col’s permission. He couldn’t.

But the knowledge that he was lying to Emmeline was a weight on his chest, and he found himself hesitant to go home to her that evening. The idea of looking at her, kissing her, making love to her, knowing that he was sitting on such a fundamental secret, made his situation unpalatable, to say the least.

He dialled Rafe’s number on autopilot.

‘Ciao?’ Rafe answered, the single word slightly rushed and breathless.

‘Are you free for dinner?’

‘What time is it?’

Pietro gazed down at his gold wristwatch. ‘After seven.’