The Millionaire Tycoon's English Rose

went out to the car together.

Franco met them in the corridor outside his wife’s room.

‘Lisa is conscious,’ he told Hope, ‘and she has something she wishes to say-to ask you. All these years it’s been on her mind. I’ve tried to-’ He lapsed into the helpless silence of confusion.

‘What have you told her?’ Hope asked.

‘I’ve denied it,’ he said heavily. ‘But nothing I say seems to bring her peace.’

‘And that’s the only thing that matters. Say whatever you have to, Mamma.’

It was Francesco who had spoken, making the others stare at him.

‘What do you mean?’ Hope asked.

‘You know exactly what I mean. Aunt Lisa is dying. Help her.’

Celia heard the click as the door opened, and the faint sound of Hope’s footsteps, then a faint, husky voice from within the room. She waited, expecting either that Francesco would lead her forward or that the door would close, shutting her out. Neither happened. By accident or design Hope had forgotten to shut the door.

Lisa’s eyes were open as Hope moved quietly towards the bed, and she managed a faint smile.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘There’s something I need to know. I always lacked the courage before.’

‘I understand,’ Hope said softly.

‘It’s about Francesco-Is he-is he Franco’s son?’

Francesco, standing in the doorway, saw his mother raise her head and look directly at Franco on the other side of the bed.

‘Tell me,’ Lisa said weakly. ‘I must know before I die.’

At last Hope spoke.

‘My dear, I wish you’d asked me years ago, then I could have told you that it’s not true. Francesco isn’t his son. I’ve never told anyone his father’s identity, but I never meant to cause you a moment’s unease. You should never have doubted Franco. You are everything to him, just as my Toni is everything to me. Now I will leave you.’

She gave Lisa a brief kiss on the cheek and backed out of the room. Her last view was of Franco in his wife’s arms. This time she closed the door.

‘Mamma,’ Francesco said, putting his arm around her, ‘was it very hard?’

‘I said what had to be said,’ Hope told him. ‘Giving her peace was all that mattered. You were right about that.’

‘It was a good lie,’ Francesco said.

Hope gave a little smile.

‘Not everything I said was a lie. All those years ago he stayed with her because she was his true love. She was. Not me.’

‘And the other thing?’ he wanted to know. ‘About Toni?’

Hope didn’t answer in words, but her gaze went over Francesco’s shoulder, so that he turned and saw what she had seen. The next moment Hope had gone.

‘What’s happening?’ Celia asked.

‘It’s Toni,’ Francesco told her. ‘He came after all. He’s been sitting at the end of the corridor.’

‘Where he could be there for Hope but not intrude on her,’ she said.

‘Yes, I think so. But now she’s walking towards him. He’s seen her-he’s got to his feet-she’s started to run-he’s opened his arms to her and-’

‘Let’s go,’ Celia said softly. ‘There are some things that nobody’s eyes should see.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

IT WAS the early hours of the morning when they arrived back at the hotel. Francesco had been silent since they’d left the hospital, but Celia sensed that it wasn’t the same silence as before. She no longer felt shut out from his thoughts. Rather he was immersed in them, struggling to find a way out, but his continual clasp on her hand told her that she was part of everything going on inside him.

Since the beds were so large she hoped he might be tempted to join her, but he slipped quietly into his own. She came to sit by him and said a soft, ‘Good night.’ He didn’t answer, and actually turned away, but before doing so he raised her hand to his lips.

They had slept barely an hour when she was woken by the sound of his voice. She was alert in an instant, slipping out of bed and going to sit beside him, listening for the old cry of, ‘Get out.’

But it didn’t come. Instead, he was muttering feverishly, ‘What did I do? What did I do?’ Over and over again the words poured out, intense, anguished.

‘Caro,’ she said, shaking him gently. ‘Wake up. It’s me.’

She reached out, touching him, running her fingers over his face. He seized her hands, holding them tight against him, but still he seemed unable to wake.

‘Why?’ he cried. ‘Tell me why? What did I do?’

Driven by desperation, she moved until she was close to his ear and said firmly, ‘You didn’t do anything. It’s not your fault-not your fault.’

She repeated the words like a mantra, with no idea of their meaning, desperately hoping that she’d found the key to whatever tormented him. At first she thought it was hopeless, but gradually his voice slowed, the words became less frantic, but imbued with a kind of despairing resignation.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Celia repeated.

‘Yes, it is-it was something I did-or why did he throw us out? Why? Why?’

Briefly she wondered if it was their own quarrel and its aftermath that tormented him, but he’d spoken of ‘he’ and ‘us.’

She gave him a shake, determined to wake him because she didn’t think he could bear this any longer. But instead of waking he began to mutter, ‘Get out, get out, get out-’

‘Wake up!’ she cried. ‘Francesco, please wake up.’

Suddenly he went still in her hands, and the sound of his gasp told her that he was awake.

‘What are you doing here?’ he whispered.

‘I’m always here. Whenever you want me. Francesco, tell me what happened. You kept saying, What did I do? And then you started saying “Get out” again. What was your dream?’

‘It was more than a dream,’ he groaned. ‘It was all happening again, just like last time.’

‘Tell me quickly, while you can still remember. Why do you say, “Get out”? Did I give you the nightmare, by saying that when we quarrelled?’

‘Not really. You triggered it with those words, but it goes back long before you. Only I couldn’t remember. That’s what was so terrible. It was always there, waiting to come back, but I couldn’t see it or confront it.’

‘But tonight-’

‘Yes, tonight he came back. As he’s been waiting to do for years.’

‘He? Who is he? Is he a real man, or did you imagine him?’

‘He was real once. He’s been dead for years, but to me he’ll always be real.’

‘What happens in the dream?’

‘He towers over me,’ Francesco said hoarsely. ‘So high he seems almost to reach the ceiling. He looks like a giant because I’m only three years old. I’m terrified of him, and I want to run away, but I don’t because only cowards run. He taught me that. He taught me lots of things-we were so close. I learned everything he had to teach. I thought he was wonderful.’

‘But who was he?’

‘His name was Jack Cayman-Mamma’s first husband, the man I once thought was my father. I can see him, leaning down to me-I couldn’t take my eyes off him-and screaming, “Get out! And take this little bastard with you.”’

Celia held him tightly. ‘Go on,’ she urged.

‘He just screamed, “Get out, get out!” again and again. I didn’t know what he meant, or what had happened, but I know we left the same day. He must have found out the truth-that he wasn’t my