Pietro was on the sofa, scruffy as hell and even more physically beautiful for his air of dishevelment. He wore the trousers from the suit he’d had on at the funeral, and the shirt too. The jacket had been discarded somewhere. He’d pushed his shirtsleeves up and his hair was thick and tousled, as though she’d been dragging her fingers through it all night even though she knew she’d never do so again.
She froze, her eyes unable to do anything but drink him in. To stare at him as though he was the answer to every question that had made her toss and turn all night.
‘Buongiorno.’
His voice was gravelled perfection. She sucked in a breath, steadying herself, blinking her eyes to clear the image of him as the man she loved. How could she forgive him? He was her father’s friend. And a liar.
‘What are you doing here?’
He stood, and if she had ever seen him in the boardroom she would have recognised the look of unshakable determination that set his face.
‘I’m staying with you.’
‘I told you to go.’ It was a bleak rejoinder.
The wind ran around the house, wuthering against the walls and shaking the glass behind her. She jumped as it banged loudly in its ancient timber frame.
He stood, crossing the room so that he stood before her. He didn’t touch her, but he looked at her so intently that he might as well have.
‘I love you,’ he said simply. ‘If you are here then I am here.’
She made a noise of exasperation. ‘You don’t need to pretend any more! Daddy’s dead. It’s over. You did what you were supposed to do. We can let this charade go.’
She wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself tight.
If anything, his expression simply assumed an air of even greater determination. ‘You need to eat something.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
‘You look terrible.’
Her eyes flashed with pent-up emotion. ‘Just as I did when we first became engaged? This is who I am, Pietro. You might have tried the Cinderella treatment on me but I’m just this person. Here.’
It took all his strength not to respond angrily. He was angry! Bitterly so. But he smiled gently instead.
‘I mean you look like you feel terrible. You look as though you haven’t slept. You look as though you have lost weight even in the few days we have been in America. Please, come and eat something.’
‘This is my house,’ she said coldly. ‘I’ll do what I damned well please.’
She stalked out of her suite, her shoulders square, her gaze focussed on the stairs ahead. But her heart was breaking and her eyes were leaking hot, salty tears of misery...
* * *
Days passed in a strange fog. Pietro was always there. Sleeping on the definitely too short sofa just outside her bedroom, keeping his distance but also watching her constantly. After a week she stopped wanting him to go. She stopped wishing he would go. Or rather she began to accept that she was glad he’d stayed.
Her world had been rocked off its axis with Col’s death, and having Pietro with her offered comfort that she knew she couldn’t get from anyone else. Even Sophie, with her cheery visits and bottles of wine, couldn’t erase the throbbing ache deep in her heart.
Emmeline didn’t speak to Pietro. Not beyond the obligatory morning greeting and an occasional comment about the weather. But his constant presence was doing something strange inside her. Something she needed and resented in equal measure. She was starting to feel like herself again, and she hated it that it was because of Pietro.
A month after Col’s death Emmeline came home to find her father’s lawyer in the lounge, locked in conversation with Pietro.
‘We’ve discussed this,’ Pietro was saying firmly. ‘The estate passes in its entirety to Emmeline.’
Emmeline paused on the threshold, a frown on her face, before sweeping into the room. Pietro’s expression was wary, his concern obvious. Emmeline knew why. She had continued to lose weight and she didn’t have any to spare.
She ignored his concern and smiled politely at Mr Svenson. ‘Can I help you with something, Clarke?’
‘Oh...um...er...’
‘It’s handled,’ Pietro said firmly, standing.
Clarke Svenson followed his lead, smiling kindly at Emmeline as he moved as quickly as possible towards the door.
As soon as they were alone, Emmeline whipped around to face her husband. ‘What was that all about?’
Pietro expelled a sigh and reached down for his coffee cup. He took a sip and she realised, with a sudden flash of guilt, that he hardly looked his best either. He looked tired, and she hated the way her heart twisted in acknowledgement of the fact.
‘There are the usual scum looking to get in on your father’s will. Long-lost second cousins twice removed—that sort of thing.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s being handled.’
Her eyes were round in her face. ‘By you?’
‘Si. Someone has to evaluate the claims on their merits.’ He moved towards her, slowly, cautiously, as though she were a skittish horse he needed to calm.
She nodded, but without understanding. ‘And you’ve been doing that?’
‘Si.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m your husband,’ he said softly. ‘Because you needed me to.’
His eyes ran across her face and he took a step closer, but she shook her head.
‘And because my father expected you to,’ she added softly.
So much of what they were came back to that, and Emmeline couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been traded. That she was not so much an asset as a bad debt that her father had needed to hand off before he’d died.
Her grief was never-ending.
‘We must talk,’ he murmured gently.
‘I know. But I’m not... I can’t... I can’t. Not... I’m not...ready.’
‘Okay—that’s okay. I understand.’
‘God, stop being so understanding. Stop being so kind. I don’t want you here, picking up all these pieces. No matter how kind you are now, nothing can change what happened.’
He ground his teeth together,
