Reckless Nights in Rome (26 page)

Why wouldn’t
her brain function? She blinked into his face which seemed too
close all of a sudden. His head moved closer and she leaned back as
his eyes, dark and intent, held hers. Saliva dried in her mouth and
she licked her bottom lip. The heat of his body, the unique scent
of his skin mingled with his signature cologne and she almost
purred.

He stared at
her mouth as if he’d never seen it before.

Oh, God. She
trembled and his eyes flew to hers.

“France. It’s a
busman’s holiday.” She had a eureka moment. “You know, learning new
techniques and ah, new ways of doing things. Got to keep one step
ahead of the competition, new skills etc,” she babbled in
desperation.

He stepped back
and leaned against the desk, his expression quizzical.

She felt almost
faint with relief.

“Where are you
going in France?”

“Paris, it’s
the pastry capital of the world.”

She shrugged
into her coat, gathered up her belongings and moved at speed
towards the door.

“Bronte.”

His voice
brought her out in goose bumps.

With her hand
on the door handle, she turned.

“Yes?”

“I will miss
you,
cara mia
.”

His voice
sounded wistful. Even as he kept his eyes on hers she read warmth
mixed with a bone weary sadness. It brought her heart to her
throat. For an instant she wanted to throw herself into his
arms.

Then common
sense prevailed. She took a breath and blinked away the mist in
front of her eyes.

“Goodbye,
Nico.”

He had missed
something.

The feeling
refused to leave Nico as he watched her get into her car from the
window.

Christ, she was
killing him. Seeing her only twice a week was killing him. She
refused to let him apologise. He narrowed his eyes as she drove
away. And she was too thin.

Again the
feeling that something was wrong and he was missing a big part of
the puzzle washed over him. Alexander was due back tomorrow and he
would talk to him.

How the mighty
have fallen, he mused, as anxiety ran up his spine. He knew his
friend did not approve of him having a relationship with his
sister, but he was a changed man and desperate. He would beg for
his help if he had to.

With a heavy
heart Nico sat behind the desk and tapped his fingers on a pile of
newspapers. A busman’s holiday? Bronte? He did not believe it for a
second. Plus, it was the first time she had mentioned it.

He flicked
through the paper and on page four he blinked.

Bronte was shown in the
arms of her ‘old friend of the family’ Carl Terlezki.

In one photo
they were having what appeared to be an animated dinner
conversation, her hand held by his across the table. Her eyes were
sparkling and her smile beamed out of the page. In another they
were walking arm and arm down Oxford Street. The last one showed
her being held close, her cheek on his chest as he stroked her
hair. Bastard! What was she doing with a man who was old enough to
be her father? But what destroyed him was the look of happiness on
her face.

Shock roared
through his system as he read the last sentence again and
again.

Bronte Ludlow
and financier Carl Terlezki were due to fly out to France for a two
week holiday. The newspaper didn’t exactly say they were in the
middle of an affair, just that both looked very happy together.

And God dammit
all to hell, they did look happy.

She looked
happy.

Sweat beaded
his head.

But surely the
man was too old for her?

Due to taking
it slow was it possible he had let another capture her heart?

Had he lost
her?

The memory of
her phone call to ‘Carol’ when they were in Rome spun into his
mind. He’d put down her breathy low voice to nerves and being upset
over Alexander’s accident. Had she been seeing Carl when he’d been
making love to her in Rome?

He refused to
believe it. But there had been nothing to stop her seeing Carl
Terlezki. As far as Bronte was concerned their personal
relationship was finished.

Checking his
watch, Nico knew there was no time to go after her now. He had back
to back appointments.

Tonight, he
would see her tonight.

“How did the meeting
go?”

Rosie lifted
her head from her work in progress, icing one tier of a three tier
wedding cake. She held a spatula in one hand and a bowl of snowy
icing in the other.

“Fine, but I am
seriously pissed off. Someone ran a key right down the side of my
car in town and gouged ‘bitch’ on the bonnet. The garage has quoted
me a fortune to fix it,” Bronte told her in disgust.

Rosie narrowed
her eyes. “Did you report it to the police?”

“Yep, I popped
into the station, but I doubt they’ll be much use.”

“You never
know, they might have caught something on CCTV. No wonder you look
like dirty dish water.”

Bronte tossed
her best friend a look as she flopped into a chair.

“Gee, thanks
for that.” She tried and failed to hide a yawn.

Her nerves were
shot. Contact with Nico left her reeling every single time. It was
as if he sucked the life blood and energy from her.

Rosie glared
and glowered at the same time.

“You need a
break. Ten hour days are ridiculous and you know it.”

“Please, give
it a rest.”

“It’s a
displacement activity.”

“Wow, you would
give Dr Phil a run for his money.”

“Yeah, well Dr
Phil would agree with me. At the rate you’re going, we’re going to
need another freezer.”

Rosie might be
irritated now but she’d thank her one day when there was an
emergency to deal with. Perhaps she had gone over the top, but the
sense of satisfaction she gained knowing that different cake
fillings were ready and waiting made it all worth it. Not to
mention the variety of sponges. The coffee mocha with grated
walnuts had been a triumph. It gave her a warm glow every time an
idea worked.

Bronte topped
up her coffee from the pot, took a sip and made a face.

“This coffee’s
off.”

Rosie took the
cup, sipped, tasted and sipped again.

“Taste’s fine
to me.”

Bronte sniffed
it, shuddered, rose and emptied it down the sink.

“Ugh, there’s
definitely something wrong with it.”

She poured
herself a glass of water as Rosie leaned back against the work
surface and crossed her ankles.

“You okay? You
look a little peaky.” Her eyes went narrow and thoughtful as Bronte
yawned again. “Your appetite is off and you’ve lost weight.”

“I’m not
sleeping. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“Alexander is
back tomorrow and I’ll be here too to make sure his meeting with
Carl goes well. They’ll like each other, stop worrying.” She took a
sip of her coffee and grinned. “I’m surprised Nico didn’t mention
all the stuff in the gossip columns about you, you slut. The phone
has been ringing off the hook with people wanting all the
goss.”

Bronte stifled
another yawn and shook her head, then wished she hadn’t as the room
spun.

“You would
think they’d have something more important to write about. Poor
Carl, he doesn’t know whether to be furious or flattered. I’ve no
idea how these people manage to find out stuff. You’re right, I do
need a holiday.”

“Everything
here will run like clockwork.” Rosie wrapped an arm around her.

Bronte let her
head drop on her friend’s shoulder.

“I’ll be glad
when it’s all over. I’m looking forward to the break.”

Rosie dropped
into a chair. “Yeah, two weeks in France is a pretty good
deal.”

Her father had
organised a week in Paris and a week at his home in Cap Ferret.

“Paris, I can’t
wait.”

Rosie frowned,
drumming her fingers over her lips.

“You need to
tell Nico how you feel.”

“I don’t want
to hear it.”

Shoulders
stiff, ignoring the clutch in her stomach, Bronte sipped her water.
A heavy wave of nausea roiled up from her gut and over her cheeks,
leaving her shivery and clammy. A headache jabbed a punch behind
her right eye.

“You’ve turned
grey.”

With a roaring
in her ears, her friend’s voice seemed to fade into the distance.
Bronte found herself pushed into a chair with her head being thrust
between her legs.

She took a few
deep breaths and sat upright.

“Wow, a head
rush.” She took another sip of water and closed her eyes.

“This is all my
fault,” Rosie told her.

“Excuse
me?”

“If I hadn’t
been talked into forcing you out on that date, none of this would
have happened.”

Bronte wasn’t
having any of it.

“You’re being
ridiculous. In many ways I don’t regret a thing. I’m not
responsible for Nico’s behaviour and neither are you.”

“Men,” Rosie
said, looking very fierce. “Are the spawn of Satan.”

Bronte caught
her eye.

“Ain’t that the
truth?”

After a warm bath, pink
skinned and rosy cheeked, Bronte felt more like herself.

The nap had
helped enormously too.

Dressed in pink
flannel pj’s with white bunnies and thick socks - a fun present
from Rosie – she tied up her hair in its usual knot and padded into
the kitchen in search of food.

How could a
person have three freezers full and nothing to eat? It was a
mystery.

She surfed
through the fridge, found a pizza past its sell by date and a dozen
eggs. Neither floated her boat.

The larder
offered up oats, pasta, rice and various tins. No wonder she wasn’t
hungry. She found a tin of shortbread on the top shelf, a packet of
salted peanuts and two bars of milk chocolate. Strangely enough,
the mix appealed to her.

On a wooden
tray, she assembled the hoard and added in a bottle of Cumberland
Ale. Her taste buds appeared to have changed since she didn’t drink
beer, it was her brother’s favourite tipple, but wine didn’t taste
right at the moment.

With a biscuit
between her teeth, the hair on the back of her neck rose as she
became aware of a presence behind her.

Her brain did an
emergency stop, as her eyes remained glued to his.

It took her a
couple of heartbeats to actually believe what she was seeing.

The sneer on
his lips along with the slight tremble of his hands made her break
out in a cold sweat as did the realisation that hit her like a
truck that she was in desperate trouble.

Wearing black
jeans and a black designer puffa jacket over a sweater, he was a
stocky big bear of a man with sandy hair that needed a wash and a
swarthy complexion. His skin appeared bloated and mottled.

A part of her
brain that appeared to be working independently wondered if he’d
been drinking or was on something, because his pupils were fully
dilated.

“If you turn
around and leave right now, I won’t call the police,” she told him,
keeping her voice firm.

Anthony’s cold
eyes wandered from the top of her head to her feet and back again.
Perspiration beaded on his brow.

Instinct, that had
served women throughout time, told Bronte why he was here.

He was going to
hurt her. Like a rabbit caught in a trap, her pulse beat too hard
and too fast. She knew who’d been phoning the house. She knew who’d
been leaving abusive comments on the website. And who’d damaged her
car and she knew that if she ran or showed fear, she’d be
finished.

“No wonder
Jonno dumped you, bitch. Do what you like, the back door was open
and I’ll say you let me in dressed in your pyjamas. It’ll be your
word against mine.”

His overexcited
voice was too high and he licked his lips in a way that made her
feel physically ill.

The room
spun.

She took a
sharp breath.

Think, think,
think.

She shook her
head, her eyes riveted on his.

“I don’t know
who Jonno is or what you’re talking about.”

Keep him
talking, talk him down, get him to sit, run for the panic button at
the door and get out.

“Your old
fiancé, my mate Jonathan! He told me all about you, what a pure
bitch you are.”

He swaggered
over, picked up the bottle of ale with an overdone bravado which
would have been comical under other circumstances, but which wound
the terror in her belly even tighter.

He sucked on
the bottle, as his eyes slid over her.

“You owe me for
running out on me. That room cost me and I didn’t even get to enjoy
it. They banned me, can you fucking believe it? And all because of
that Italian you spread your legs for. He’s not here now though, is
he?”

Those eyes
narrowed as he finished the bottle, burped and tossed it over his
shoulder.

It hit the
stone floor and exploded like a gun shot.

Anger battled
through panic that he should come into her home and treat her like
this.

“Get out!”

“Not before I
get what I want.”

“What do you
want?”

Stupid. She
knew it was a stupid question, but she simply could not bring
herself to show weakness.

Shrugging off
his jacket, Anthony tossed it in the direction of a chair, all the
while watching her like a starving wolf staring at a fat lamb.

He grabbed his
crotch, gave it a jiggle. And she refused to let her mind go
there.

“I want a piece
of the action, Bronte baby. You can’t keep a man, can you? Jonno,
poor fucker, had to put up with you treating him like shit. Imagine
telling your fiancé you fancied his friend? And when that friend
takes you on a date, you get him hard and blow him off! Then the
Italian lasted for what, a week? And now you’ve got yourself an old
sugar daddy?”