‘You’re wearing something.’
‘Yes, but I don’t look like you.’ He grinned, pulling her close. ‘I want to see you.’
‘Believe me, I feel the exact same way.’
His laugh was a little off-kilter, but he stepped backwards and slowly slid his briefs from his body so that he was completely naked.
‘Better?’
Emmeline felt as though she’d eaten a cup of sawdust—her mouth was completely dry. ‘Uh-huh.’
He laughed, kissing her cheek, and then reached for her hand. He laced his fingers through hers and she grinned.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘First time I’ve held hands with a guy. Other than my father.’
He pulled a face that perfectly covered the way his heart was rabbiting about like a wild thing in his chest. ‘I don’t want to think of your father right now.’
Or the fact that he had cancer. Was dying and lying to his only daughter. Nor the fact that he was using Pietro to cover that lie.
Emmeline’s laugh covered the unpleasantness of his thoughts. ‘Sorry. It’s just this is all so strange.’
‘Si. Quest’e verita.’
He pulled her after him, out through the door and down the stairs, and for the first time Emmeline spared a thought for the dwelling they were in. It was a very unassuming rustic farmhouse. Large terracotta tiles lined the hallway and the walls were cream. The furniture was nice, but certainly not designer.
‘It came like this.’ He answered her unspoken question.
‘When did you buy it?’
He squeezed her hand. ‘Here.’
He guided her into a kitchen and lifted her hand to his lips, kissing it before releasing her fingers from his grip. He opened the fridge and she watched, waiting.
‘Five years ago.’
‘Why?’
He thought about not answering, but what was the point in that?
‘I’d broken up with a girlfriend. The press thought we would get married. So did she, I suppose. It was a messy split. Acrimonious. Bitter. Public.’ He grimaced. ‘I learned a lot from that experience. Most of all the importance of having somewhere to go when things get heated. I should have taken the time to calm down.’
‘You didn’t?’
He shook his head, pulling a box out of the fridge and opening it. ‘I stayed in Rome.’
‘That was bad?’
He laughed. ‘I did a lot of drinking to forget her. A lot. It was not a good phase of my life.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, hating the lash of jealousy that whipped her spine.
‘Don’t be. We are still friends, and I realised that I needed somewhere all to myself. No one knows about this farmhouse. It’s owned by my corporation, but I never bring anyone here.’
Pleasure soared at the fact that she’d made the cut, but there was envy too. ‘How...admirable that you’re still friends.’
His eyes met hers, his smile making her feel as though she’d been sledged in the gut. ‘Jealous?’
‘Not at all.’ She looked away, hating how transparent she must be to him. Unfortunately she had no experience in pretending not to give a crap about her husband’s past. Especially when his past must so radically outstrip her own experience.
‘Why does that annoy me?’ he mused, lifting a piece of meat out of the container and placing it on a dark timber chopping board. He reached for a knife; it glinted in the light.
‘I don’t know,’ she said softly, distracted by the motion of the knife as it cut easily through the meat. ‘Even with this place you’re still in the press more than I can ever imagine.’
‘And you are never in it,’ he said thoughtfully, placing the pieces of sliced beef onto a plate and then turning back to the fridge.
‘Well, there’s nothing interesting about me,’ she said softly.
‘That isn’t true.’ A frown tugged at his lips. ‘You are an anachronism.’
‘I know.’
She couldn’t help it. She reached over and lifted a piece of meat, placing it into her mouth just as he turned around.
Her eyes met his and she shrugged. ‘I’m starving,’ she said through a full mouth.
He grinned. ‘I’m glad to see you eating. You need energy.’
Her pulse raced. ‘Do I?’
‘Oh, yes, cara.’
He paused, his eyes scanning her face so intently that she froze.
‘What is it?’
‘When you smile like that you look so much like your mother.’
Something flashed in her expression. Something that was definitely not pride or pleasure. It was doubt. Guilt. Pain.
Curiosity flared in his gut. ‘That annoys you?’
‘Of course not,’ she said stiffly. ‘My mother was very beautiful. I’m flattered.’