‘True. But we still haven’t talked about the future.’
‘That again?’
‘Yes, Marco. That again.’ She stood to confront him.
This wasn’t the young girl he had first met in Tuscany but a lioness defending her cub, he reflected as Cassandra folded slender hands across her stomach. She was so different from any woman he’d ever known that he was thrown for a moment, and when his secretary knocked discreetly on the door to remind him about his ‘fictional’ next appointment, he was quite curt with her. ‘No more interruptions, please. Hold all calls until further notice.’
‘Yes, sir.’
His secretary closed the door behind her with exaggerated care—in response to the tension in the room, he guessed.
‘Well?’ he prompted, fixing his gaze on Cassandra.
‘It’s time I went home.’
He turned to look out of the window, knowing that if any other woman had said that to him he would be feeling relieved round about now. He felt anything but relieved.
‘Why?’ he demanded softly.
‘Your attitude towards the future tells me that I must plan for the long term,’ Cassandra insisted, trying for calm and ending up impassioned—those pregnancy hormones raging again, he suspected. ‘And while you seem to think that my living at your apartment as a guest is fine, I want to have a proper home to bring my baby back to—and that means going back to England. This isn’t an impulsive decision, or something you can put down to my hormones racing.’ He said nothing. ‘It’s the sensible thing to do. I have to go soon, or I won’t be allowed to fly—plus I need to get things ready for the baby while I can still get around.’
‘You seem to have it all worked out.’ He felt stung, insulted, discarded, superfluous to requirements. He was the one who made decisions. Other people carried them out. Not the other way around.
‘I can’t just mark time here until the birth,’ she insisted, ‘or face a blank, uncertain future. I have to get organised.’
He placed a call. ‘Signorina Rich is ready to leave, Paolo. Front entrance? Yes. Thank you.’
Replacing the phone in its holder, he met Cassandra’s shocked gaze. ‘I have only ever wanted what’s right for you, Cassandra.’
* * *
Cold, unfeeling bastard. She was right to leave. And the sooner the better!
She was in a state of shock as she followed Marco’s ice-cool secretary to the bank of elevators. More so when the woman remained at her side until Cass stepped in and the doors slid to. Was she checking that she’d gone? Was she going to report back to her stone-hearted master that the mission had been accomplished, and another woman who hadn’t taken the hint soon enough had finally departed?
She was overreacting, Cass accepted as she pressed her back against the cold steel wall. This was what she had wanted. It was what she’d come here to tell him—that she was going home and he couldn’t stop her. Stop her? Marco had practically kicked her out!
She was overreacting again, Cass told herself firmly. It was those pregnancy hormones at work again. That was why she was biting back tears. She had expected more of him—she had expected some real emotion, when she should have remembered that Marco di Fivizzano could feel none. She was beginning to wonder if it would be better to cut all ties. Marco was such a frightening contradiction, and she couldn’t be certain that he would ever be anything else. He was so tender and loving one moment and so completely detached and unfeeling the next.
The drive back to the penthouse was swift. The traffic was unusually light. She was feeling better, more composed and ready for the next stage in her life, unaware that a second shock was waiting for her. The first thing she noticed when she walked through the door was her battered old suitcase standing in the hallway. Waves of ice lapped over her as she walked up to it and tested the weight. Someone had packed it for her. The maid, she supposed. Marco must have rung from the office. He had wanted her gone before he returned home.
For some reason, her gaze flashed to the hall table, where once he’d left her a cheque. Her heart gripped tight when she saw the message waiting for her. It wasn’t in Marco’s hand. He must have dictated it to the maid. It was certainly brief and to the point:
‘Call me at the office when you’re ready to leave. My jet’s fuelled up ready to take you home. Marco.’
She leaned back against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. She should have known how easily Marco could detach himself. It was too late to think about all the things she had wanted to say to him—there wouldn’t be a chance for that now.