Behind her, Nic went on standing, motionless, staring at the closed doors of the elevator. He had sent her away. It was what he’d wanted to do. Needed to do. Surfacing from that post-coital slumber to the realisation of what had happened had been like waking up with a punch to his guts. Slamming home to him just what he had done. The impossibility of it.
You need to go.
Go back to the world she came from, to the person she was—Donna Francesca, the person he wanted nothing to do with.
Nothing.
It was the only thing that made sense. Because sure as hell emotion scythed through him now, knifing in his eyes. Nothing else made sense. And not, above all, the sudden yawning emptiness inside him. That least of all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FRAN WAS HURRYING past the majestic elevation of King’s College Chapel, shivering in the chill east wind blowing up from the Backs. Was it the cold, or was she sickening for something? She hadn’t felt right for over a week now.
Her thoughts hollowed. A bug was the last thing she cared about assailing her. Far, far worse was the desolation inside her.
How could I have let it happen? How could I have let myself? Let Nic?
Her thoughts sheered away, but their echo hung in her head like a weight she could not move. The clutch of nausea came again. She should have cancelled this luncheon engagement she was hurrying to, but it was too late now. Cesare would be waiting for her.
Still in the UK, he’d driven up to Cambridge with Carla, who was at the Fitzwilliam, interviewing an art specialist there, and had suggested he and Fran meet for lunch. Fran had found it hard to say no, yet she was deeply reluctant.
She was in no mood for socialising. No mood for anything except burying herself in her work, wanting only to immerse herself in it, block out everything else. Block every memory, especially the one that was trying to seek entrance—the one she must not allow entrance to.
Her mind sheered away again. She glanced across at the imposing frontage of the colleges, all so familiar. A sense of claustrophobia assailed her. Cambridge seemed to be closing in around her, and apart from her work she had no time for it any more. She no longer found the antiquity, the archaic traditions—from the meticulous formality of High Table to the endless rivalries between the colleges—as appealing as she had once found them, as an undergrad thrilled to be accepted into this ancient seat of learning, these hallowed halls. Since then she had spent too long in the USA, enjoying the freedom there.
Memory clutched at her again—of just what freedoms she had found in the States—and sheered away again. It had not been academic freedom she’d been remembering.
No, don’t go there! Don’t go anywhere at all except the present—today, now. Meeting Cesare for lunch, even though she didn’t want to. Didn’t want his shrewd gaze on her, seeing her agitation, wondering at the cause of it. Coming up with a reason for it.
Cesare was not an easy person to hide things from, and the last thing on earth she wanted was any replay of his warning to her about Nicolo Falcone.
The nausea came again, putting Cesare and her reluctance to meet him out of her mind, making her take a steadying breath that did not steady her. Her breasts felt tender, her abdomen distended. As if she were pre-menstrual...
She frowned, confused. Her cycle was regular, and PMS usually hit only a couple of days before her period, which wasn’t due for a week. So why—?
She stopped dead. Her hand flew to her mouth, eyes widening in horror. No—no, it couldn’t be! It just couldn’t! Memory racked her—a memory she didn’t want to have, but had to make herself have. That night that should never have happened!
He used protection! Dear God, he must have used protection! He must have!
But she could remember nothing—nothing except the white-out passion that had blinded her, consumed her.
A smothered cry broke from her. With a gasp, she started forward again, changing direction, plunging into the shopping area of Cambridge. Desperate to find a chemist.
* * *
How she got through the next two hours she didn’t know. Somehow she coped with lunch. Cesare must have seen how distracted she was, but thankfully he made no observations on it, was his usual urbane self.
Only once, when she answered him at random, did he pause and ask if she was all right. She made a face, said she was coming down with a bug and changed the subject to something about how her mother and sister were in the throes of preparations for Adrietta’s lavish engagement party—to which, of course, Cesare and Carla had been invited as family friends.
Then, at the end of the meal, as she was getting to her feet, Cesare drew back her chair for her. Her nerves totally on edge, she fumbled for her handbag, managing to knock it to the floor. It spilled open, and instantly she bent to retrieve the disgorged contents, exclaiming about her clumsiness, urgently stashing away the tell-tale item she’d purchased from the chemist on the way here, desperate to head home and use it.
Desperate to discover whether she was panicking unnecessarily.
‘Francesca!’ Cesare’s voice was shocked.
She wheeled about, clutching her handbag to her chest as if to hide it from X-ray vision. But one look at Cesare’s expression told her it was too late.
She threw her head up. ‘It’s none of your business, Ces!’ she said furiously.