Reckless Nights in Rome (23 page)

Yet another piece of
the puzzle that was Nico, Bronte mused, taking a seat at the same
cafe they’d visited the day before.

Raising her
face to the winter sun, she absorbed the buzz of Italian voices,
the scent of coffee, enjoying the moment and the spell Rome had
cast over her.

A shadow fell
across and she opened her eyes.

The man who had
been watching Nico in the cafe yesterday stood before her.

He wore a grey
suit under a camel coat that hugged his wide shoulders.

Imposing, was
her first thought. The second was he looked just like Nico, but
older – late thirties? He had the same aquiline features, perhaps
sharper, with none of Nico’s easy humour in his eyes.

Eyes that
appeared almost black.

“
Scuse
signorina
. You are English?”

The accent was
stronger. Those eyes pinned her to the chair as she nodded.

“May I join
you?” He settled into the chair next to her before she
answered.

Alarm battled
with curiosity as her mind raced. What could he do to her in broad
daylight?

“I will not
harm you, Miss Ludlow. I wish to speak with you about Nico.”

She blinked in
surprise. “I have no intention of discussing him with you or anyone
else.”

His mouth
twisted in what could have been a smile. He placed a business card
on the table. Gabriel Ferranti, CEO of Ferranti Enterprises.

She placed her
palms on the table ready to leave. Then something in his eyes had
her pause. What was it they said about curiosity?

“Who are
you?”

Gabriel stirred
sugar into an espresso as the waiter served her another
cappuccino.

He watched her
carefully. “I am his brother.”

Her eyes flew
to his face. “I’m sorry, but Nico has no family.”

Perhaps she
could have been a little more diplomatic?

The expressions
in his face were fleeting, but she caught the shock, replaced by
pain, replaced by a cold anger.

He nodded and
placed the tiny cup very carefully on the saucer.

“How dare you
speak to her?”

Bronte’s head
whipped up, not only at the freezing tone of Nico’s voice but the
suppressed violence that accompanied it.

His eyes
lasered into the man who sat at the table.

Gabriel stood
now, his eyes just as furious as his brother's. And they were
brothers. Bronte’s breath caught in her throat. My God, they could
have been twins.

“Are you
unhurt?”

Nico’s furious
eyes held hers and she read a dark agony before he hooded his
lids.

“I’m fine.” She
desperately tried to catch his eye.

Gabriel’s snort
of derision brought Nico’s head up.

“How dare you
approach her,” he thundered.

His voice shook
with anger and for a moment Bronte thought he was going to strike
out.

She gripped his
hand.

“I would not
have approached her if you responded to our letters or answered our
telephone calls.”

Nico’s voice
trembled with suppressed violence. “I have nothing to say to
you.”

Gabriel leaned
in closer and spoke in Italian, his voice viciously angry.

Whatever he
said, they were nose to nose and Nico responded through his teeth
in Italian. It brought a hot angry flush to Gabriel’s face. The
whole cafe had gone deathly quiet and Bronte realised every single
person was listening.

She stood,
trying to squeeze Nico’s hand. He was holding hers so tight he’d
almost cut off the blood supply in her fingers.

Desperate, she
used a tone her mother had perfected when dealing with her and
Alexander when they were at each other's throats.

“This is not
the place to have this conversation. You’re drawing too much
attention to yourselves.”

Gabriel nodded
his head and his eyes met hers.

The expression
in those dark eyes was so like Nico’s it brought a hot lump to her
throat.

Bronte
recognised desperation when she saw it.

“I apologise
for upsetting you, Signorina Ludlow.”

With a final
remark in Italian to his brother, Gabriel gave her a stiff bow and
left.

For a moment
Bronte felt lightheaded until she realised she’d been holding her
breath.

“What ...?”

Nico turned to her, his
lips white.

Those eyes were
black as coal and lasered into hers.

“Not here. What
the hell were you thinking?”

She blinked.
The tone hard and cold brought jittery nerves into her stomach.

Her feet fought
to keep pace with her racing heart as he strode through the
streets, his grip on her arm felt like a vice. How was any of this
her fault? He was the one who told her he had no family. Apparently
he’d lied. He had a brother and God knew what else.

“Nico, slow
down.” Her voice sounded high and panicky and it seriously ticked
her off.

He ignored her
and if anything his pace increased. He pushed her into the lift to
his apartment ahead of him.

Chest heaving,
Bronte rubbed her arm and spun around.

“You lied to
me.”

He looked as if
she’d slapped him.

A bleak sadness
whirled in his stormy grey eyes. He refused to speak to her.

This is the
stuff of nightmares, she thought, as he marched her through the
door to his apartment. She jumped as the door slammed like a
gunshot and braced herself.

Nico threw his
jacket and coat on the floor, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the
neck of his shirt.

Genuine
distress flooded into his eyes and she pressed her fingernails into
the palm of her hand.

“Why were you
speaking to him?”

“I ...”

Bronte realised
she had no answer to his question that would satisfy the fury in
his voice. To tell him she spoke to his brother because he looked
and sounded so much like him made her look and sound
ridiculous.

She’d wanted to
help, to understand what made Nico tick. Something had happened to
him as a child. That much was clear to her. How could she tell him
she needed to understand him? To help her come to terms with the
feelings she had for him, feelings that terrified her.

Face composed,
voice level, she studied his face.

“Why did you
lie to me?”

His eyes were
darker than night and she shivered as the shutters came down. His
face was cold and hard. There was no sign of the man she knew, with
whom she’d fallen irrevocably in love with.

“My personal
life is none of your business,” he told her in a tone that lashed
over her frayed nerves.

She nodded,
just what she’d expected. Nausea rolled up into her throat and she
moved to the bedroom.

He followed
her, pulled her round to face him.

“My father is
dying.”

His father?
Okay, so he had a father and brother. That explained the
undercurrent of sadness with Gabriel.

“I am sorry,
Nico.”

“Apparently, he
wishes to see me.”

“You’ve never
met him?”

“No.”

Pity for him
rose into her throat but she knew better than to show it. He would
never forgive her. Instead she sat on the edge of the bed. Nico
didn’t forgive. She’d seen that last night at the nightclub. He saw
things in black and white with no grey areas. The man had defined
lines about how he ran his life. And she’d stepped over one today
by talking to his brother.

He sat on the
edge of the bed now with his head in his hands.

“He is your
father and you have a brother? A family?”

He lifted his
head and shot her a look of smouldering impatience.

“Why did you
speak to him? My family has nothing to do with you.”

It had
everything to do with her, she thought. She loved him, she could
admit it now. He was so alone in his life.

Nico rose and
stalked into the sitting room. He poured himself a cognac and
swallowed it in one.

Bronte stood at
the door, uncertain and unsure. And she gathered herself.

“I know what
it’s like to have a parent die with words unsaid. Words unspoken
breed anger, fear and mistrust.”

Nico turned to
her and looked as if he wanted to strangle her.

“What are you
talking about?”

She felt a
glimmer of hope. At least he was listening to her.

“My mother.
There were things ... she should have told me. Important things
that I had a right to know.”

She jumped as
the glass shattered against the wall.

“You have no
right to interfere in my life,” he roared.

Chin high, eyes
flashing, Bronte stood her ground.

“You will live
to regret it every day of your life if you do not listen to what he
has to say. What happened to we need the truth between us?”

Eyes weary now,
he stared at her and shook his head.

“You know
nothing about me. You do not understand.”

“Then tell me.
Make me understand.”

With a heavy
heart, she witnessed him struggle with inner turmoil and felt so
helpless. There was nothing she could do for him if he refused to
trust her.

She turned
away.

“I lost my
mother when I was ten.” He sank into a sofa and laid his head back.
Eyes wide, he stared at the ceiling. “When she became pregnant with
me, her father threw her out, disowned her. Her lover was a married
man with a young son. She died in poverty, sick and alone. After
she died, my grandfather took me in. He reminded me of my birth
every day.”

She cleared the
lump in her throat, her heart breaking for the sad little boy she
saw in the man. A man who had never fully healed, she realised and
sat opposite him.

He took a
breath and continued.

“My grandfather
was a vicious unforgiving bastard. But at least he gave me an
education. He told me everything I need to know about my biological
father. My father left us to starve on the streets. I will have
nothing to do with him or his son.”

Bronte blinked.
Her mind racing, surely he could see that his grandfather was just
as responsible?

“Your
grandfather?”

“He died twelve
years ago and I built up my business from his legacy.” He turned
tormented eyes to her. “I will not be tainted by my father. He is
dead to me.”

Okay. “Why
would you listen to the views of a man who turned his back on his
daughter and her baby?” She moved to sit beside him, took his hand
and rubbed the back of his knuckles. He stared at the ceiling, jaw
clenched as she continued.

“Yes, your
father might be a monster and your brother even worse, but unless
you hear the facts for yourself, how will you ever know?”

He pulled his
hand from hers and stood.

She recognised
the expression. It was the same one on his face when he dealt with
the woman in the nightclub.

Nerves dried
her mouth.

“I do not wish
to discuss it further.”

“I’m being your
friend, Nico,” she whispered.

The expression
in his eyes chilled her blood.

“You have
listened to my enemy and taken his side. Is that how you treat a
friend?”

“I have not
taken sides, Nico,” she whispered. But her conscience told her that
she had hurt him.

“Yes, Bronte,
you have and you know it.” The look on his face made her eyes
sting. “I made a choice years ago on the path I wish to take
through life. You have no right to interfere with that
decision.”

Her heart broke
in her chest, she could actually feel it.

The blinkers
she’d been wearing were torn from her eyes. He had no heart, no
forgiveness. He was never the man she thought he was. Even worse,
he would never become the man she knew he could be.

What a
waste.

“I’m the best
friend you will ever have, Nico. Words unspoken break hearts. You
should remember that.”

He gave her a
cold, level look. And she knew she’d lost him.

“You should
pack. We are leaving.”

“I spoke to our
boy. He’s loving Lake Como and a little bird tells me you were
doing the rumba in Rome.”

Rosie danced
into the kitchen on Friday morning and stopped dead.

Every surface
shone like a mirror. The team had left it in pristine condition
yesterday, but this morning stainless steel glittered and glass
gleamed.

“Can I take it
you had a call from Lucy?” Bronte muttered rubbing the stainless
steel gas hob too keenly focused on the job in hand to look at her
friend. She needed to keep busy, to stop her mind reliving the
roller-coaster of the last week.

How could she
climb so high and fall so far in such a short time?

The journey
home had been a living hell. He hadn’t looked at her or spoken a
single word.

When she closed
her eyes he was there. She hadn’t slept a wink last night and she
had so much to do. The whole thing was a nightmare.

She put her
back into it with a concentration and energy that made her friend
narrow her eyes and purse her lips.

Rosie watched
with interest as Bronte scoured the hob as if she’d found the
source of the Ebola virus.

“Er, can I just
say the kitchen was spotless when I left it last night.”

Frantic now,
breath panting, Bronte polished the hob with a dry cloth.

“I know it
was.”

“Need a
hug?”

Rosie put her
arms around her and Bronte placed her aching head on her
shoulder.

“I’m not
crying.”

Rosie rubbed
her back. “Did he hurt you?”

With a sigh,
Bronte slumped into a chair and pressed her fingers into burning
eyes.

“No, I hurt
him.”

Rosie stared,
wagged a finger.

“Not possible.
You don’t have a nasty bone in your body.”