Far From Perfect (21 page)

“You are indeed,” he said softly, a note in his voice that might have been menace. Or might have been something else entirely. “And I suggest, on our return to London, that we see each other as little as possible. I shall have to make arrangements for Maria’s care, and probably for her return to Italy, but I think your father, and others, can be told that unfortunately I’ll be travelling on business for the foreseeable future. I can certainly make that the truth.”

“Well, it seems as if you’ve got it all worked out,” Anna whipped back, stung by the clinical quality of his…his projections.

“I’ve given it some thought.”

He sat back in his chair, his muscular arms crossed in an action that might have been construed as defensive in a man less strong and completely sure of himself. “And perhaps you could concentrate on developing Traditional Temps? You have an excellent prospect there. You’ve found a niche market that’s viable even in times of financial uncertainty. I’d be prepared to provide a substantial investment to enable an expansion. There’s certainly scope for it.”

He lifted one hand, tapped a finger against his lips. She could almost see the cogs of his analytical mind turning. Assessing. Scheming. It was impossible to believe this was the same man who’d groaned her name as he’d reached the pinnacle of pleasure inside her body. “That way we could still appear to be a modern engaged couple for a while. Each continuing to pursue our separate business interests.”

“I don’t want a payoff,” she cried, appalled.

Nick’s eyes hardened like blue ice. “Not a payoff. An interest-free loan.” He enunciated every syllable as if he’d been turned into a machine. “It would simply add veracity to our position.”

She wanted to protest. She wanted to fly at him and slap him, shake him out of the frigid shell he’d so rapidly sealed around himself. Wasn’t there even a spark of the warm, fiery, generous man who’d given himself to her so splendidly during that long, perfumed afternoon they’d shared only hours ago?

It seemed not. And the effort of fighting for something that had probably been no more than a convenient illusion suddenly seemed unbearably wearying. She sighed and looked away, out of the cabin window, into the night.

“As you wish. That sounds excellent. Thank you,” she murmured.

A tiny green bud of hope that she’d barely been aware of nurturing had just been utterly and irrevocably crushed.

On their arrival in London, Nick had been coolly solicitous, arranging a separate car for Anna to take her home while he went straight to the hospital where Maria was. He’d even asked—several times—if she was all right.

His kiss on her cheek as they’d parted had been the purest, most exquisite torture. She doubted if she’d ever be all right again in her life.

Such empty words
, she thought a couple of weeks later.

All right?

Probably the most meaningless expression in the world, but she’d been using it in answer to every query about her welfare since.

Acting the part of a contented fiancée parted from her fiancé purely by circumstances demanded quite a bravura performance from her, but at least she could take some small satisfaction from the fact that she kept rising to the occasion.

Queries from her father and from Lydia were searching, the latter more so. Perilously so. But eventually, even they stopped asking, although Lydia’s sharp eyes continued to observe her acutely, and her aunt was especially kind and thoughtful towards her.

Anna had not seen Nick since they’d parted stiffly at the airport, but she had received a number of brief, efficient text messages from him about the proposed venture capital for Traditional Temps. The temptation to just ignore them was enormous, but she’d steeled herself to reply with just as much detachment and focus on purely practical matters. It was the only way to handle things. Anything else, any slight deviation into the realm of emotions and memories was likely to see her crumple and fall apart.

And that she could not and would not do.

She looked up from the paperwork on her desk. At least the business was doing all right. More than all right. The plans to expand and open a new office in Manchester were exciting, and she looked forward to throwing herself into them and building on what she and Lydia had already achieved. All she had to do was to remember, always, to name their new business partner as Industria Lisitano.

Always the company. Never the man. Never the man.

But when Lydia appeared in the doorway a cold, cold hand gripped her heart. Something in the look on her aunt’s dear, rounded face chilled her to the bone. The other woman grimaced, shrugged and sighed. Then she placed a magazine—one of the celebrity glossies that Anna had been studiously ignoring for the last fortnight—on top of the development plans.

“I know you’re going to see this sooner rather than later, love.” Lyd’s voice was soft and palliative, as if she were talking to a dangerously fragile invalid. “Better now, than get a shock at some news-stand or other.”

She flipped open the magazine.

Somehow, Anna wasn’t surprised. Not at all. A rather grainy photograph showed Maria Rossi in a wheelchair, being wheeled through an airport. At her side was Nick, and she was clutching his hand.

It appeared pretty obvious that they were back together again, and as she read the small amount of accompanying text, which admittedly consisted mostly of supposition, Anna found herself twisting the ruby ring on her finger.

She wanted it off. It was meaningless. She’d been living in limbo land for the past two weeks, but now she wanted to be out in the real world, no matter how painful it was. Free, in a world where she no longer had any connection to Nick—no matter how tenuous or contrived.

There was no way Carlo would know that she’d taken the ring off, she decided, struggling with the wretched thing. He’d be safe in his illusion for a little while longer, until he was completely out of danger.

But if I continue to harbor illusions they’ll destroy me eventually.

She twisted at the stuck ring, hurting her finger in a futile attempt to divert focus from the huge pain in her heart.

“Leave it,” Lydia said gently, “Try it later with some hand cream.”

Ignoring her, Anna braced her hand on the desk and wrenched at the ring. And as it came off, the force of releasing it ripped the open magazine page from top to bottom.

The picture of Nick’s face was torn in two. And as she looked down on that image of beauty crumpled and sundered, for the first time in two weeks, she began to cry again, feeling Lydia’s arm encircle her shoulder as she curled in on herself, cradling her sorrow.

Chapter Ten

Returning to the office after meeting a prospective client, Anna shuddered when she saw a copy of UK Celeb on their new admin assistant’s desk.

For six weeks, she hadn’t looked at a single copy of this magazine, or any of the many similar celebrity publications. The last time she’d looked at one, or had it shown to her, she’d fallen apart, and she was determined never to let that happen again. No way.

“Help yourself,” said Sandy cheerily, returning from the coffee room, “I’ve finished with it. There’s nothing much of interest in there anyway.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass.” Anna returned the pleasant young woman’s smile, a mix of curiosity, confusion and apprehension rippling through her. Sandy would certainly have mentioned if there’d been a photo or article about her boss’s fiancé featured in those garish pages.

Automatically, she twisted the ring on her left hand. She’d put it back on again. Even though communications between her and Nick continued to be to-the-point texts or emails about business or Carlo, there’d been nothing about ending their faux engagement.

“Any messages?” she enquired, moving to her desk and grimacing at the pile of new CVs she had to go through. Flinging herself headlong into work had been mercifully therapeutic, but there were times when she wished it was safe for her to just ease off a little bit.

“Oh, yes, sorry. There was a call from
Signor
Lisitano’s personal assistant. He’d like you to meet him at the Savoy, if you can.” Sandy glanced at the wall clock. “For afternoon tea, around three if possible? Shall I call to confirm?”

If her admin assistant had vaulted across the desk and slapped her in the face, Anna couldn’t have been more surprised and thrown into turmoil. All these weeks with nothing more than the sketchiest of contact and now this.

A summons to the Savoy.

She wondered if Sandy could actually see her heart pounding in her chest. The urge to put both hands over it in an attempt to calm its sudden, frantic leaping was almost irresistible.

Instead, she said, “Yes, please do.” Her voice came out sounding surprisingly normal considering. She’d half expected to hear a strangled, nervous squawk. “I think I’d better spruce myself up a bit before I set off though, don’t you?” She flashed a smile—that felt as if it were nearly cracking her face—at the friendly young woman. “The Savoy is so posh. I don’t want them to have to sling me out for looking like a gypsy.”

On entering the famous foyer of the Savoy, she didn’t feel so much like a gypsy as someone whose entire physical constitution was about to capsize.

Nick.

Oh, how she wanted to see him. How she feared the very same thing because this might mean the end of their engagement and that their flimsy masquerade was finally over. It was a meaningless and empty relationship, but it was still a link to him.

She scanned the spacious room that was filled with happy, glamorous people enjoying the traditional English tea ceremony. Light from the chandeliers glinted off the silverware and the china, and the sound of voices seemed to rebound off the mirrored walls and double in volume.

But Anna was waiting for the sound of one familiar, deep and thrilling voice raised in greeting. Waiting for the sight of one unforgettable face, one head of shining burnished dark gold hair.

But there was neither. Instead, and to both her surprise and guilty disappointment, she saw another familiar figure rise from his seat and heard a different Italian voice say, “
Ehi! Ragazza mia! Buonasera!
”

Signor Lisitano.

Signor
Carlo
Lisitano walked towards her to greet her, enfolding her in the sort of enthusiastic hug that she doubted she would ever receive again from his absent son.

He looks well. In fact, he looks fabulous
, she thought as they exchanged more greetings and Carlo led her to his table and got her settled. The elder Lisitano’s every move was vital and energetic, and his weather-beaten face seemed to glow with a health that seemed all the more robust for having been so recently threatened. She hated herself for wishing his son was here in his place.

“You look amazing,
Zio Carlo
,” she said once tea had been ordered. “How are you feeling now? You certainly look much better than you did when I last saw you.”

“I feel very well,
cara
,” answered Carlo, beaming. His voice was heavily accented, but his English was excellent. Almost as accomplished as his son’s perfect idiomatic command of the language. “My doctors have given me a clean bill of health now and proclaimed my recovery to be remarkable. Of course, I have to make certain concessions,” he went on, casting a brief but longing glance at the cream cakes being served at the next table. “But even so, it is a small price to pay for being brought back to life.”

Carlo’s eyes were darker than those of his son and brown instead of blue, but they still had the same razor sharp perception. And they narrowed now, focusing disturbingly on her face.

“And how about you,
piccolina
?” he enquired more softly. “You are more beautiful than ever, Anna, but you are too skinny. And there are shadows beneath your eyes.” He frowned momentarily, concern gathering on his impressive brow. “Which I expect is the fault of my foolish
idiota
of a son, no doubt, and of me too, alas. We shall have to do something about this, and do it quickly, don’t you think?”

She didn’t know what to say, and to her horror, she felt sorrow rise in her throat like a physical obstruction. And tears that she’d suppressed too long prickle dangerously in her eyes. A sob gathered, but before she could suppress it, Carlo had slid along the banquette they were sharing and she was enfolded again in a very loving and avuncular hug.

“Don’t worry,
cara
,” Carlo said gently, “I have spoken at length with Niccolo over the last few days, and I know what has transpired between you. I am to blame for much of it. Much more, I fear, than he is. But he is his own man, Anna, and even though we’ve talked as never before, he still keeps his own counsel in some things. I can only hope that the truths I have told him will allow him to see a truth of his own.”

“I don’t understand,” she said as their tea arrived, and elder Lisitano released her and set about solicitously pouring her a cup of Earl Grey and encouraging her to eat. The sandwiches and cakes looked sumptuous, but she knew that they would probably taste like mud in her mouth until she knew what Carlo was talking about. Maybe even afterwards too.

But the fragrant tea itself was both refreshing and reviving, and she sipped it gratefully as Nick’s father began a slow, careful narrative which seemed to test his excellent English to the limit.

“You don’t remember my wife very much, do you, Anna?” he began, grimacing and setting aside his cup of weak tea.

“No, I don’t. She died when I was tiny. I only really know her from Nick’s stories about her, although I must have met her, because I remember she was lovely. But I can’t recall her very clearly.”

“I loved her,” Carlo said simply, a wistful expression creasing his bronzed face. “I loved her with all my heart. But it was a stormy love. Fiery and full of argument. Rosa had her own fires, and she gave as good as she got much of the time. But she had hidden vulnerabilities too, and I hurt her very grievously. Much as Niccolo hurts you now.”

The older man paused, and unashamedly took out a snowy white handkerchief and wiped his eyes. “And there were other faults on my part. I wasn’t the man that my son is. I was weak. There were other women. Women who were easier, less emotionally intense than my sweet Rosa, and I enjoyed them.” He drew in a gusty breath, “And eventually this all became too much for her…and…and—”