The Last Heir of Monterrato

A curl of disdain twitched Rafael’s perfectly formed lip. ‘How nice that you should care.’

It didn’t sound nice—not at all. Everything about his cold, sarcastic manner, the harsh light in his eyes, the formal, brittle posture, was telling her one thing. He hated her.

If Lottie had hoped that time had washed over their past, smoothed the jagged edges of her actions, time had seriously let her down. It had been two years since she had left, wrenched herself away from the wreckage of their marriage and fled back to England. But being back at Palazzo Monterrato, staring at Rafael now, she knew that those two years were as nothing. The atmosphere between them was almost as horrendous, as harrowingly painful, as the day she had left.

‘Of course I care.’ Something about the absurdity of his comment made her want at least to attempt to put the record straight. Make him see that, despite her all too convincing performance, she wasn’t all bad. ‘That will never change.’

‘Very touching, I’m sure.’ Rafael’s words sliced through her tentative confession. ‘But your misplaced sympathy is of no interest to me.’ He moved back to his side of the desk. ‘You are here because there is an important matter I need to discuss with you. Please, sit down.’

Lottie took a seat opposite him, her rapped knuckles clasped in her lap, her back very straight. She knew what was coming; she had been waiting for this ever since she had received his email.

It had been just another afternoon at work when she had opened her inbox and there it had been: a message from Rafael Revaldi. To see his name like that, out of the blue, had sent a hot flush of panic through her body. She had had to count to three before she’d even dared open it, darting a look at the only other people in the exclusive London art gallery—a whispering gay couple, admiring a vast canvas they were never going to buy—in case they had noticed her alarm.

The curt, dictatorial message had stated that it was necessary for them to meet; two different dates for the following week had been marked for her consideration and flight tickets would be emailed on receipt of her confirmation. As her mind had whizzed with the flurry of possibilities it had quickly settled on the cold blanket of truth behind the message. He wanted a divorce.

Tipping her chin, Lottie forced herself to meet his gaze, affecting as much detachment as she could muster, determined to be strong now. ‘I know why I’m here. Let me assure you that I am as keen to get this over and done with as you are. I have no intention of being difficult, of trying to prolong the situation.’

There was a dangerous flash in Rafael’s eyes before they narrowed to conceal anything further. He said nothing.

‘If you have already had the papers drawn up...’ she was babbling now, in her hurry to get this over with ‘...and it’s just a matter of signature I can sign straight away and—’

‘Let me stop you there, Charlotte.’ Raising a hand, he silenced her, a gold cufflink glinting in the low afternoon light. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘The divorce, of course.’ Lottie felt heat rising to her cheeks at the very use of the dreaded d word. ‘I know I am here because you want a divorce.’

Rafael leant forward, the fine fabric of his jacket pulling taut against his broad shoulders as his elbows rested on the desk in front of him, his hands linked.

‘And what makes you think I want a divorce?’

Lottie looked down, picking at the skin around her fingernails. ‘Because it’s been two years.’ She could feel his eyes boring into the crown of her bent head and forced herself to look up and confront him. ‘And two years is the legal time necessary to apply for a consensual divorce.’

‘And you think that is why I have brought you here?’ His words were mocking, biting.

‘Well, isn’t it?’

‘Believe me, Charlotte, if and when I want a divorce it will happen. The vagaries of English law are of no interest to me.’

Of course, Lottie corrected herself, how foolish of her. She should have known that as far as Rafael was concerned laws were something other people abided by. He had the power and the cunning to circumnavigate them, adapt them to his own needs.

Quickly she scanned the face of the man opposite her, afraid to let her eyes linger in any one spot for fear of being unable to drag them away again. He presented a cold, harsh picture, with the damaged skin pulled tight across the sculpted planes of his cheeks and jawline.

Why was he denying it? Did he get some perverse pleasure from watching her squirm? If so, that pleasure had to be locked deep inside him, for she had never seen him look more severe, more forbidding. She knew he wanted to divorce her; receiving that email had only confirmed the bleak realisation that had been silently gnawing away at her for nearly three weeks now. Ever since she had innocently stumbled across that online newspaper article.