Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

‘You’re panting.’

Leo.

‘I’m running.’

Well, almost. Walking briskly. She dodged a flying cycle courier, who in turn dodged a double-decker bus.

‘Contrary to popular belief, secretaries don’t spend all day sitting on their backsides.’

An unexpected chortle came down the line. A deep, sexy, gravel and velvet laugh that reminded her, fleetingly, of the old Leo. Her stomach flip-flopped.

‘A car will pick you up tomorrow, at six p.m., to take you to the airport. Where do you wish to be collected?’

She jostled her way into a popular sandwich bar, wondered if he was still in London or back in Rome, then wondered why she cared.

She mimicked his cool, no-nonsense tone. ‘From the office.’

‘Fine. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.’ He ended the call as abruptly as he’d commenced it.

Helena frowned at her phone, then shoved it back in her blazer pocket and smothered a flash of annoyance. Letting his lack of geniality irritate her was silly—a waste of mental energy when she had none to spare. They weren’t a couple, and nor were they friends. Out of the public eye there was no need for pleasantries or false sentiment. And as for his taunts about her sleeping in his room, sharing his bed—turning their ruse into reality—they had been nothing more than that.

Taunts.

Unfortunately that thought didn’t placate her nerves later that evening as she stared at the neatly packed contents of her suitcase. Stomach churning, she ran through the list in her head one last time, confident she hadn’t overlooked any essential items. Tomorrow the compact roller case would wheel easily on and off the train to work and her canvas carry-on, holding her passport, purse, and the jeans and tee she would change into for travelling, was light enough to hitch over one shoulder should she need a hand free.

Satisfied, she made some peppermint tea to pacify her tummy and settled on her sofa. It was late now—well after eleven—and her flat was silent, the tenants upstairs and the neighbourhood streets finally, blissfully quiet. She sipped her tea, let the fragrant brew circulate and soothe, then put down her cup and picked up the envelope she’d pulled from her nightstand drawer earlier in the evening.

She lifted the flap and pulled out a photograph—a picture of a tiny baby swaddled in the soft folds of a hospital-issue blanket. For long moments she studied the image, noting every detail even though she could close her eyes and still know every individual feature by heart. From the adorable tufts of jet-black hair to the miniature half-moons of delicate lashes and the sweetest little Cupid’s bow mouth she’d ever seen on a child.

She’d named her son Lucas, and he would have been six now had he lived. She had other mementos of him, too. Small treasures. Keepsakes. Stored in the beautiful wooden memory box her mother had bought. But this image of her son—so tiny and precious, cradled in her arms as if he simply slept—was by far her favourite.

She swallowed and breathed through the dull, familiar ache that settled in her chest whenever she thought of her stillborn son.

Carefully, she slipped the photo back into the envelope.

Leo had been long gone by the time she had learnt she was pregnant, and though she’d known in her heart she had to tell him she hadn’t found the courage to do so. He’d been so angry the last time they’d spoken, his declaration that he never wanted to see her again so adamant and final. Far easier, she had discovered, to let fear and hurt rule her head than to step back into the firing line.

And yet the day she gave birth to their son—the moment she cradled his tiny, silent, still warm body in her arms—all that fear and hurt became trivial. Irrelevant. Because she knew. Knew that if Lucas had been gifted life she could never have kept him from his father. Could never have denied Leo the chance to know he had created such a beautiful, perfect little boy.

She rose, went to her bedroom and slid the envelope

back into her nightstand drawer.

Months of counselling had helped her to move on with her life, overcome her feelings of anger and guilt, but those dark, endless days of soul-destroying grief—she wouldn’t wish those on anyone. Not her worst enemy and not Leo. What could be gained now by dredging up all that heartache and sorrow? Nothing. It was history. Water under the bridge. Whatever cliché one wanted to assign it.

Some burdens, she reminded herself, were better borne alone.

* * *

Leo stood at the head of the steps that scaled the private jet and checked his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.

Damn it. Why did his shoulders feel as if they were roped into knots the size of fists? And why couldn’t he shake this weird, jittery feeling from the pit of his stomach?

Granted, he’d expected the car he’d sent for Helena to have arrived by now, but it was Friday rush hour and this was London. Traffic would be hitting its peak and a fifteen-minute delay was negligible. If the driver had encountered any serious hold-ups, or if Helena had failed to show, he’d have heard by now.

All of which meant he needed to kill this obsession with his watch and relax.

This arrangement of theirs might top the scale of hare-brained ideas, but his impromptu return to London on Monday had at least gained him an edge. In less than an hour he’d blindsided Helena at her office—fair payback for ambushing him at the hotel—tossed her firmly on to the back foot and enjoyed their verbal sparring to boot.